Spring and Fall
By John Solomon
The best days for fishing seemed to have a
certain visceral feel, a kind of predatory urge that
drove Mark knee-deep into the nearest river to
stalk trout. Such was not the case when he was
getting ready for his last client of the season on a
cold, overcast fall morning. In fact, his feelings
were quite the opposite: pack it up and go home.
The damp wind tugged at his fleece jacket as
he stepped out of his Jeep, yawning and scratching his haystack of hair, and walked up the steps
of the log cabin fishing lodge where he worked.
Fraying gray clouds hung close to the earth, and
the valley floor faded into a hazy curtain, masking the timbered hills nearby. Mark really didn’t
notice. Sure, a few Brown Trout might make the
day interesting, but sitting by the woodstove with
his friends drinking beer and watching a football
game sounded just as fun. And a lot warmer.
The booking was a half-day wade on the private water behind the lodge. The woman who’d
called earlier in the week practically begged, a late
birthday present for her father. They were outof-towners, his health wasn’t great but she was
sure he’d do okay. Heard it before Mark thought,
but inked the reservation and figured it would get
him a few dollars closer to a new rifle. It would
probably be a slow afternoon of fishing. But, fishing was fishing, and that’s all that really mattered.
Mark was pulling on his neoprene waders
when a rented minivan arrived in the small gravel
parking lot out front. He recognized the woman
from her voice – thin, stylish, and tense. She was
buzzing around a short lanky old man as he tried
to get out of the van, reaching for support and
moving about 8 frames per second slower than
everything else. He gave the lodge a once over
and shuffled across the parking lot with steps that
never got his feet off the ground.
Mark sauntered onto the covered front porch
to greet them, hands tucked into waders that
were turned down to his waist. The small talk
was superficial and Mark threw out some canned
lines about the lodge and the river as the old man
looked around skeptically, the creases on his face
deep and weathered. The woman seemed distracted by the young guide’s jaw of stubble and
the early wrinkles at the corners of his eyes where
the outline of sunglasses was still resonant in his
tan. As they stepped inside the lodge, the old
man scuffled past Mark and paused at a wall of
photographs. He tipped his brown cowboy hat
back so he could push his face close enough to see
them.
The woman raised her voice and said she’d be
back at lunch to get him. The old man didn’t pull
his eyes away from the pictures, just sort of threw
a hand up as if to say fine, fine, you do that.
The woman leaned in close to Mark and lowered her voice.
“Please be patient,” she said, “he can be difficult.” Mark glanced at the old man, who was on
his way out the back door onto the deck.
“Not a problem.”
“His name is Walt but everyone calls him Tex.
He’s always wanted to do this,” she said, grabbing
his elbow. “Really, he has, even if he acts like
he doesn’t. Just make sure he has fun…please.”
With a squeeze, the woman turned and walked
out, digging a cellular phone from her shoulder
bag.
Mark sighed and scratched his fingers through
his hair before he put on the lucky fishing cap he
always wore. Time to work the magic he thought
as he stomped to the back door, pulling his vest
off the hook by the door and taking a rod out of
the rack. Mark had a reputation as a fun guide
who could get laughs out of clients even on the
worst days of fishing. This might be different.
He saw the old man standing beside the river,
hands in his pockets.
Mark walked toward him, slowing to a stop
as deep, rumbling coughs came up from the old